


Incessant

by strawberriesandtophats



Series: Mud and silk [2]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Blood, M/M, Richelieu Lives AU, Spanish Prison AU, episode 7 season 2, references to
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-07
Updated: 2017-07-07
Packaged: 2018-11-29 04:54:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11433564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strawberriesandtophats/pseuds/strawberriesandtophats
Summary: All jobs had their perks and their downsides. One of the downsides of being the Captain of the Musketeers was the threat of dying on the job.Prequel to "Collusion"





	Incessant

**Author's Note:**

> Turns out that when I watch the scenes where Treville gets shot and the surgery, I am inspired to write fic.

All jobs had their perks and their downsides. One of the downsides of being the Captain of the Musketeers was the threat of dying on the job. It was far easier to die on the job than it was to live long enough to retire or be considered so troublesome that he’d be demoted or gotten rid of entirely.

Treville lay on the operating table, trying to even out his breathing. His body burned, trembling with the aftermath of the searing pain from the surgery. He could still feel the mud of the Paris street covering his hands, even if he knew they were clean. He’d been ready, for a split second, to accept that this would be the day he died.

It wasn’t as if he hadn’t been hurt before. He’d broken bones and been stabbed and been beaten more times than he could count. He’d lived through all of that, and he’d keep on fighting, as soldiers did. He could still taste blood, but that was hardly news. The taste and scent of blood had followed him all his life, from the sight of the blood of animals, to the stench of blood on the battlefield.

Treville closed his eyes, gripping the table with this hand. His stomach had been cleaned and his shirt removed by Lemay, who’d dressed him in a worn, but very clean spare shirt when he’d finished bandaging the wound itself. The operating table had been cleaned too, scrubbed free of blood.

Treville breathed in as slowly as he possibly could, feeling his lungs protest as searing pain shot through his body. But he needed air to live, so he concentrated on filling and emptying his lungs as carefully as he could.

For a brief, fleeting moment in the mud of Paris, he’d seen the scarlet skirt of a nearby woman as she swept by. The pain had blurred his vision, and he’d mistaken the material for the rich fabric of Richelieu’s vestments. Not that he wore them that much, but the color had been something that belonged to him, and so it was seared into Treville’s memory.

 It had been as if the man had come to fetch him to cross to whatever men had to face after this life.

And Treville had been _glad._

He’d been damn glad not to die alone.

He’d closed his eyes, ready feel the rush of air that always accompanied Richelieu’s robes when he kneeled and the scent of his perfume of incense and wildflowers, even if he knew that the likelihood of the man hiding in Paris for all this time was a pure fantasy. He’d seen the coffin.

And yet.

Hope was a dangerous thing, as fragile as a flower petal and as resilient as a diamond. It kept young men walking and riding on old horses until they arrived in Paris so they could enlist in the Musketeers. It kept soldiers walking in the mud and kings up at night.

No one was guaranteed another day, and yet everyone dared to make plans.

Treville remembered the papers and maps in his office and how he’d written down every single clue about Richelieu’s possible imprisonment in a Spanish prison, papers that his men would find if he would not make it back to the garrison himself. They wouldn’t notice the dried flowers from the gardens which were pressed between old books on his shelf, or the little hourglass on his desk. But he already had enough information written down that it could lead them to a series of likely prisons.

The Musketeers had found him in the mud instead, and he had not died.

And now Treville thought about faded maps of villages in Spain and how much time he would need to recover until he could ride again. He had things to do, and a Cardinal to rescue.

If Richelieu was still alive, he could surely survive a few more weeks. Time would pass, and Treville would heal and gather information and make plans, and Richelieu would wait. Louis would become increasingly afraid as France fell to pieces around him.

Treville would find Richelieu, and order would be restored.

It was just a matter of time and opportunity.

And he had plenty of both.

After all, he was considered to be out of commission for now. Richelieu would never have made that mistake. But he wasn’t here now, and wasn’t that just the problem?

Treville grinned, not bothering about wiping or licking away the blood on his teeth.

There was work to be done.

 

 


End file.
